


Music Is Permitted

by hambiance



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Racial slurs, WIP, political reference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hambiance/pseuds/hambiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The disapproving voice of his father was like white noise, always filling Desmond's head with doubt and keeping him from doing what he always wanted to.</p><p>Fuck that noise.</p><p>Desmond had a different kind of noise now; one that had always belonged to him, one that had battled his father’s voice for years. Creed’s beat, the first thing he learned on a drum kit, would come to life through his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music Is Permitted

“You didn’t have to call.”

“Apparently I do, Des. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” Rebecca scoffed over the line. “Creed is going to be playing at your club and you decided to wait until the morning of the show to text me? You even had the nerve to include a- what is this anyway? I’ve never seen this emoji before.”

“Oh, that one’s throwing up because he’s so excited,” Desmond explained. With the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder, the bartender passed off a wire to the club’s tech girl. “Shit, you could be here y’know. Imagine rigging the lighting for Creed. Emily doesn’t even look excited.” The french girl glanced at him when she heard her name and Desmond smiled to her, handing over a cable clip.

Rebecca groaned from her side and Desmond grinned to himself. “Miles. You know it’s my dream job. No need to rub it in.” 

“About not telling you...I didn’t want to get my hopes up. My manager is a real pain in the ass when it comes to the entertainment here. Apparently Creed is too low profile for him. France has been on edge for a while and with Altair and Malik coming from Syria...he didn’t want to get any trouble from the audience. I...ended up waging my job on the performance,” Desmond admitted.

“Desmond!” The bartender could imagine his friends exasperated look. “Only you would do that.”

“Oh please, you’d do it too if it meant making drinks for fucking Altair Ibn-La’Ahad.” Rebecca huffed over the line but Desmond could tell he was right 

"Yeah yeah...still got that crush?" Rebecca teased and Desmond seemed to tighten up.

"Hey, every Creed fan has the hots for him," he insisted. "...do you think my ass is good enough for Ezio Auditore? I’m wearing those jeans that always got me laid in New York.” Desmond was only half joking and Rebecca indulged him with a laugh. “I gotta to go, you know I get charged three dollars a minute for international calls. Let the others know about tonight, will you?"

“Sure, Miles. Have a good time.” Rebecca told him and Desmond could hear her smile. Emily soon signaled that she was done with Desmond’s help and he left the club's tech girl to finish cleaning the back room. Though he tried not overthink it, Desmond couldn’t help but grin when he looked at the back room. In a few hours Creed would be here and sitting on those lounge couches, drinking from the glasses he had set out, eating the food he had stocked in the mini fridge. It was painful to wait so the bartender distracted himself with ensuring the club was ready for the show that night. 

Desmond happened upon Creed when he had graduated from high school. The band was still a few months young then and was relatively unknown in America but Desmond had remained loyal ever since. Armed only with his own determination and every last cent to his name, Desmond gave his father an eloquent “fuck you” and drove away once he had his diploma. Creed had been the soundtrack to his drive from South Dakota to New York City where he carved out a niche. 

Between tending bar and bouncing between part time jobs, Desmond made a few friends in New York. Surprisingly, the young woman that worked tech at his club was familiar with Creed and the two bonded over it. Rebecca became a good friend and found him a cheap place to live with some of her friends from college. Those days with Rebecca, Lucy, and Shaun had been some of the best. He was young and free and untouchable; at least, until his father tracked him down.

It seemed like nothing could hold back William Miles and his pursed lips and his “now Desmond” speech; except maybe an ocean. The Atlantic Ocean to be exact. Which was how he had found his way to Paris after his relatively successful stint in New York. For a year Desmond tended bar at a club in the scene part of Paris and lived in the apartment above it. 

Tonight would be the night; Desmond could feel it when he took a seat at his own bar to wait. Things were finally coming full circle. To score a booking with Creed, who fueled his long nights behind the bar, his tapping feet and drumming hands, and that final drive away from home, set something at ease in him. 

Desmond, knee bumping up and down to an unheard beat, waited with uncharacteristic patience. Creed would be there any minute now. Expect they weren’t. An hour passed before his excitement began to tire and the young man slid from the stool and stood behind his bar to ensure his station was ready for the evening. His fellow barkeep, a Frenchman named Jean, walked past with a mop.

“Do you think I should call them?” Desmond wondered out loud. Jean lifted his head and made a prompting noise. “I mean...It’s getting late. Maybe I should call. They could be held up somewhere…”

The other bartender shrugged and went back to cleaning. “Oui. Call them. I would hate to replace you because your band did not remember it had a show tonight. I will miss you when you’re gone,” Jean mused and Desmond rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Desmond insisted as he looked out at the empty club. He drummed his fingers on the bar and stared at his phone while he debated calling the band’s manager. Desmond’s job was riding on this event but he wasn’t sure if this was some kind of ‘fashionably late’ thing that bands did, so he decided to give it another half hour. 

The front door of the club opened ten minutes later and Desmond was drawn to attention instantly. The man that entered the club was dressed casually in dark jeans and the left sleeve of his jacket was pinned neatly. The bartender couldn’t help his excitement. 

“Mr. Al-Sayf.” Desmond drew the man’s attention as he left his spot behind the bar. When Malik turned his eyes on him, Desmond’s excitement returned tenfold. 

“Bonjour. Desmond Miles?” The bartender nodded in confirmation and shook the man’s hand.

This was a rare opportunity. The public eye didn’t see much of Malik and the man was somewhat aloof when it came to the media. In the five years since Creed’s conception only a handful of interviews had been scored with the band’s manager. In the early years, Malik had even spent some time on stage but those days ended when he lost his arm. The guy looked almost unreal. Malik’s two day scruff was on point, his slightly mussed black hair was perfect, and the tired but professional hold of his dark eyes could have pinned Desmond.

“I’m sorry we’re late, there have been some strange developments in the last couple of days,” Malik said but Desmond shook his head. 

“No big deal man, you’re here now. But we gotta get you set up real quick, only got two more hours before people start arriving.” Desmond made to walk out of the club, figuring he could help the band unload their gear. However, Malik didn’t follow and Desmond turned back. “...right?” he noised awkwardly.

“I’m not sure what this will mean for the performance tonight, but there have been some changes. Two of our band members left since our last show in Reims.” Desmond’s mouth went dry. “Daniel Cross was dismissed earlier this week and when we arrived in Paris yesterday, Arno Dorian informed me he was leaving to reconnect with an old friend here.”

This wasn’t what Desmond had hoped for. In fact, this was the exact opposite. “You can still play, right?” he wanted to know. When the bartender looked at Malik this time he could see now that the manager’s mouth was drawn into a tight line, his eyes tired. No doubt Malik had a difficult time dealing with the loss of two band members.

“Yes. But without Cross I expect the show will be less than spectacular.” Desmond could only nod. He understood, though he wished he didn’t. As a drummer himself, Desmond knew that without Cross, Creed wouldn’t be able to hold out for long. Cross had been Creed’s drummer for the last year, before him it was Clay Kaczmarek until he went missing. Clay had taken over when Malik’s younger brother, Kadar, had died. It seemed like Creed could never catch a break. Cross, though he was a brilliant percussionist like those preceding him, had been a basket case. The fans had never been sure what to make of him and the guy often caused chaos wherever the band went. Though it didn’t bode well to be without a drummer, Desmond figured that losing Daniel was better in the end.

The same couldn’t be said for the night's performance. Without a beat to back the track, Desmond doubted the event would be anything great. 

“I get it,” he assured Malik who looked tired. Desmond sighed through his nose. “But you’ll still play.”

“Of course,” Malik assured him. 

“Thanks. I...kind of bet my job on this performance,” the bartender admitted and Malik raised his brows. “Organized the whole thing.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Malik told him and motioned for Desmond to follow him out of the club. “You may still lose your job if this goes anything like I think it will.” Following the band manager like a pup, Desmond prayed silently that Malik was wrong.

Outside the club the band members had begun to unload their gear and cases from the beds of two pickup trucks. Though the weight of the impending performance had briefly pulled on Desmond’s morale, his excitement quickly returned as he looked on at the group in front of his club.

Creed had never been a big production. The band was simple and never had more than six members at a time as the cast grew slowly but steadily. The founders of Creed, Altair Ibn-La’Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf, and his brother Kadar, started the band five years ago when they left Syria due to rising conflict. The first year of music was filled with a longing for a new home while the trio navigated Europe. These were the tracks Desmond listened to when he drove to New York City, unsure what he would find there but knowing he would make it work somehow. 

After almost two years, Creed dropped off the map. The conflict in Syria had risen to new extremes and Rebecca and Desmond assumed their disappearance lent to the situation. With civil war ravaging their home country, Altair, Malik, and his brother went back to Syria to salvage what they could of family they hadn’t heard from in a year. 

By the time the band resurfaced, Kadar had died and Malik had lost his arm; both Altair and Malik had been sent to America by a refugee service. When the music started again it was with an american drummer to replace Kadar and a new guitar player to fill in for Malik who had stepped away from the limelight. Almost a year passed before Creed returned in full force with Altair Ibn-La’Ahad on bass, Ezio Auditore for lead vocals and second guitar, Connor Kenway on lead guitar and second vocals, Clay Kaczmarek on drums, and Arno Dorian on keyboard. The music flowed once again and Creed had never been stronger. There was a brief hiccup when Clay disappeared from the band a year ago but his role was quickly filled by Daniel Cross.

Creed was always independent. Though they had been offered contracts a few times, Malik and Altair had decided a long time ago that Creed could only be owned by it’s members. Creed was all it’s own even if it meant the visibility of the band was somewhat limited. For the past few years the band had been playing in Europe and made Monteriggioni, Italy it’s base thanks to Ezio’s gracious accommodations. 

“Sprigati!” the Italian exclaimed when he saw Malik exit the club with Desmond. The man had a guitar case slung over his back and was hefting a few cases from the back of a pickup. “Bene, more hands. Take this,” he told Desmond and the bartender couldn’t have been happier to help and gladly took a few items. Malik propped open the door of the club and the band members hauled the gear inside before they began to set the stage. “What is your name?” Ezio wanted to know as Desmond helped unpack his gear. 

“Desmond Miles.” He kept his grinning to a minimum.

“Americana, like Connor,” Ezio mused at Desmond’s accent. “And that bastardo, Cross,” the singer added and Desmond lifted his brows. Catching his expression, Ezio waved it off. “We’re better off. Malik told you, yes? That he’s gone? Che sfortuna.”

“Yeah, he told me. But you can still play, right?”

“Of course. Nothing can stop us from making music.” Reassured, Desmond focused on getting the band ready for the stage. Jean and Emily came out to assist in the preparation and the opening act, an acoustic french duet, arrived on time to Desmond’s relief. Glancing around, the bartender let out a brief smile. Even with the late start and the missing drummer, he had been able to pull together a performance he had always wanted to see. It was surreal to stand only a few feet from the people who had set him on the road and kept his moral up when he doubted himself. Hell, Creed was what inspired him to sit behind a drum kit for the first time when he arrived in New York.

Only a few feet in front of him stood Ezio, adjusting his microphone stand. On his right was Connor who sat at the front of the stage tuning his guitar. The young man’s long hair was hidden inside the grey beanie he wore and Connor looked at home with his instrument slung on his shoulders. Seeming to feel Desmond’s eyes on him, the guitarist looked up and held Desmond’s gaze with his dark eyes before he nodded in greeting. Desmond gave him a small smile. The band members got the stage ready with practiced ease, though they seemed to waste time setting up the drum kit. 

“Hey, uh, Altair,” Desmond said, crouching beside the bassist while the man shuffled a few pieces around. “Let me.” Altair had looked ready to punch a hole right through the drum skin. The man gave him a sideways glance. The Syrian wore casual clothes like the others, jeans, boots, and a hoodie that covered most of his face. Desmond could barely meet his eyes but his gaze flickered briefly to the scar cutting vertically across the corner of the man’s mouth and the bartender wondered what it would feel like against his own lips.

“You know how to do this?” Altair looked skeptical but moved aside when Desmond nodded, snapped out of his daydream. Standing, the man watched Desmond from above for a moment. “Cross usually does it,” he grunted. “I don’t know why Malik even wants these damn things up anyway, no one’s playing them.”

Hearing the contempt in Altair’s voice, Desmond quickly changed the subject. “I’m a drummer,” he noted casually. One brow raised, Altair folded his arms over his chest. Feeling the man’s heavy gaze on him, Desmond cleared his throat quietly and focused on adjusting the snare, both attracted and intimidated by the man looming over him.

Listening to music is an intimate thing. After countless hours of soaking in Creed’s rhythm, Desmond felt like he knew these people closely. Creed had sat in the empty seats of his car when he was the only thing on the road for miles. The words they had written fueled his journey from South Dakota to New York City and farther to Paris. Creed’s beat was the first things he learned on a drum kit. Creed was Desmond’s family.

Or maybe not.

When Desmond stood again, finished with the kit, he found that Altair had left him without a word; not that he expected special treatment. When he spotted the bass player, Altair stood beside Malik who watched over the set construction with a careful eye. In that moment Desmond wondered if the rumors about the two Syrian's were true, that they were lovers on the down low. After a few moments he caught sight of Altair's hand brushing Malik's and their fingers lock together briefly. With an inner feeling of accomplishment Desmond noted that he would have to get his ten dollars from Rebecca.

Desmond moved on, helping Emily run wires and assisting Ezio through soundcheck before he left them to ensure security was ready. Returning to the main room, Desmond walked in to hear the final sound check. The bartender stood by his station with his arms folded and a secret smile lifting his lips. Altair stood stage right and was laying down a smooth bass line. Inwardly, Desmond grinned as he watched the man play with a missing ring finger, his music unaffected by the lost digit. When he had positioned his guitar to his liking, Ezio joined with a few simple chords and Desmond began to recognize the number. Connor followed soon after, providing a kicking melody. If only they had a beat. Desmond knew by heart the exact moment Cross would have kicked in on the drums and his hands unintentionally came down to the bar top to drum it out for his own pleasure. How cool would it be to jam with Creed?

The session ended all too soon and the musicians broke apart. Desmond lifted his brows when Ratonhnhaké:ton approached him at the bar. “Hey man. What’s up Ronano-...Raten- Ryan-...” Desmond cringed, hoving hoped he could have impressed the other by saying his birth name correctly. But Connor waited patiently for the other to finish his verbal stumbling. “I…”

“Connor is fine. I haven’t been called Ratonhnhaké:ton for a few years.”

“Connor. Yeah, thanks.” Desmond rubbed the back of his neck. “What, uh, what can I get for you?”

“Just some water.” 

Desmond grabbed a cold bottle from the fridge beneath the counter and passed it over. “There’s more in the back room for you guys,” he informed the other. Desmond took a breath. “Can I ask you something?” Desmond wasn’t sure how long the band would hang around for after the show and he wasn’t sure if he would ever get the chance to ask again. Connor nodded. “How did you meet Malik and Altair?” Not a lot was known about Creed’s brief visit to America and the youngest band member’s bio was even shorter than Malik’s, if that was possible.

However Connor didn’t look surprised by his inquiry. The young man gave a soft shrug. “I hadn’t even heard of Creed before I met them. They had just arrived from Syria and were in Boston for medical reasons when I met them in the hospital. I was visiting a friend but Altair heard me playing guitar for him.” It was good explanation, one Desmond had never heard before. Fans always had their own theories, but nothing compared to the real thing. He leaned against the bar, hoping to hear more of the story in great detail. Sadly there wasn’t a much time. “When Malik got out of surgery, Altair had me play for him right there in the hospital room.”

Desmond had his own ideas about Ratonhnhaké:ton, but the story he was told was exactly perfect. It wasn’t terribly extravagant and there was very little grandeur. It was happenstance and Desmond figured fate brought Creed back to life after the losses it had suffered in Syria.

Ezio waved at Connor from the door to the back room of the club and the guitarist nodded to Desmond in parting. Only when the other left did Desmond mumble “Ratonhnhaké:ton,” correctly before smacking himself on the forehead.

It was coming together. There was no drummer, no beat to back the tracks, but Creed was here and there was a line down the block waiting to enter the club. Receiving a nod from Malik, Desmond gave Emily a signal and she turned off the lights inside. The club suddenly filled with it’s usual red, blue, and purple lights and a Creed track began to play.

Two hours had gone by quickly. Checking the time, Desmond grinned,glad to see they had made it. The doors opened, IDs were checked, and people began to stream into the club, most of them fans of Creed. Desmond took up his post behind the bar with Jean and the two passed out the first drinks of the night. Another half hour sped by and the club was packed. The canned music faded and the opening act stepped onto the stage. After exchanging a glance with Jean, Desmond slipped out from behind the bar when a lull came and the young man made his way along the edge of the crowd, planning to check on the band.

The security guard opened the door to the back room for him and Desmond moved inside and out of the din of the club-

-and into a bedlam of another kind. 

Desmond’s eye widened and he promptly ducked when a beer bottle went sailing over his head and smashed on the door that had just closed behind him. “What-”

“You’re desert shit, you hear me?” Daniel Cross was being held still by Connor and on the other side of the room Ezio and Malik were struggling to keep Altair back. The bass player looked ready to tear the other apart and was sporting a bloody nose though it wasn’t much compared to the black eye and split lip that Daniel had. The injuries weren’t fresh and Desmond quickly realized that Cross’s leaving the band hadn’t been a clean break; the drummer had come back with a vengeance.

“Say that again! I’ll rip your tongue out!” Altair growled and Ezio exclaimed in italian when Altair’s elbow landed in his gut and the man broke away from their hold. Desmond chose that moment to move in. As a bartender he was accustomed to fist fights and could only hope no one smashed another glass bottle on anyones head. Connor joined him as well when Cross made a lunge for his old band mate. 

Desmond had never thought he would be this close to Altair Ibn-La’Ahad. Desmond certainly never thought it would happen in the back room of his own bar (he would never admit to that fantasy). As he intercepted the bass player on his way to Cross, Desmond tackled Altair into one of the lounge couches. They landed together on the cushions before rolling to the floor with a thud. Ezio was suddenly there, pulling Desmond to his feet and pushing Altair back to the floor when he tried to rise with a growl. 

“Let me up!” Altair hissed when Ezio and Desmond boxed him in. 

Desmond, weak in his resolve to give Altair what he wanted, began to back away however Ezio stopped him with a glance. “I’m sorry, amico. We can’t let you-” he started to say but Altair interrupted him.

“I’ll feed him his teeth!”

“And that is why.”

Desmond glanced back to see Connor hauling Cross towards the door. “Lemme go ya damn feather head!” Malik pushed open the door of the back room and motioned for the security guards to get Daniel out of the club. Connor took care to shove Cross at them with a little more force than necessary. Before the door could fall shut behind him, they heard Cross spit at them one last time. “Camel jockeys!”

“Fuck you!”

“Altair,” Malik’s voice cut through the room and he looked pointedly at the other. “He’s gone, quiet your tongue.” With Daniel out of the room, Ezio didn’t protest when Altair tried to rise again and Desmond got out of his way. The bass player didn’t seem aware of his bleeding nose until Malik handed him a napkin. “Clean yourself up,” Malik told him with a well worn bitterness.Altair wiped at his upper lip and rolled his eyes at the manager.

Desmond stood between them all and righted the coffee table that had been upturned in the scuffle. “So...not to pry,” he started. “But what the fuck was that about?” Adrenaline made his blood rush and Desmond could feel dread rising in his gut. “I’m not sure if you know this, but I bet my job on this show. I promised my boss it would be perfect so when I booked you to play I’m sorry if I didn’t realize you would be performing without your psycho drummer and that he would try to trash my back room…!”

Looking around at them, Desmond only received mixed expressions. Ezio had the good grace to look embarrassed while Connor looked indifferent, knowing he wasn’t guilty. Desmond didn’t want to yell at them and it was somewhat surreal to have all their eyes on him, but quite a lot was at stake for him. 

“You don’t have a drummer? Fine. Fuck Cross. If that’s the problem then you just work with what you’ve got, change the set list, I don’t care. But there’s a lot riding on this show for me. It’s the only thing keeping me from going back to the states without my dignity.” Glancing between them, Desmond met Connor’s steady eyes and found that he could relax a little. “I’ve been listening to Creed since the start, guys. Hell, it’s what put me behind a drum kit in the first place. If you fuck this up, I swear I will never forgive you.” Desmond wasn’t sure why that should matter to them and was beginning to regret saying anything when he heard a snort from his left.

Altair’s expression made the bartender uneasy. “What?” Desmond said, tired of Altair’s constant attitude. The man stood with his arms folded over his chest, his hip slightly cocked. His hood had fallen during the scuffle earlier and Desmond was able to meet his piercing eyes now, making him wish he wasn’t so frustrated and could have enjoyed them more.

“You have too much faith. Without Cross the show will be terrible.” 

“Just.” Desmond was sure his eyes were going to roll into the back of his head. “Make it work,” he grit out between his teeth.

“Play with us.”

“Non dire sciocchezze,” Ezio said, waving at Altair. “We have never heard him play.”

Altair stepped to Ezio’s side, one arm sliding around his band mate’s shoulders and the Italian easily slung his own arm around Altair’s hips. “We’ve never played without a drummer,” he countered.

“I’m not sure. It’s nothing good-” Desmond began to say, backing himself towards the door. The glint in Altair’s eyes made him uncomfortable. Countless times he had imagined playing alongside his favorite band, but now was not the right time or place; he was meant to be tending bar!

“If you’ve been playing and listening to Creed for five years then I’m sure you can keep up with us for one night,” Altair told him and fixed Desmond with his eagle like eyes. 

Desmond was almost to the door when he bumped into Connor. The Mohawk had his arms folded over his chest and raised his brow at Desmond, seeming to be taking inventory. “This isn’t a good idea...I mean, I’m supposed to be at the bar right now.”

“I’m sure your boss will understand,” Altair insisted.

“I’m sure he won’t.”

“Think of the publicity it would bring to the club!” Ezio chimed in, catching on. Altair had swayed him rather quickly and Desmond was becoming outnumbered. Shaking his head, Desmond turned and tried to maneuver around Ratonhnhaké:ton but found that the guy took up more room than he thought he would and effectively blocked the door. The bartender gave him a pleading look and nearly groaned when he saw an amused flash in Connor’s eyes. 

“Come on Desmond. You want to save the show?” Altair baited him and Desmond sent him a slight scowl. If they hadn’t all been looking at him before, they certainly were now. 

There was one person left to give his input and Desmond looked to Malik. The man held an expression of polite amusement and gave a soft shrug when Desmond looked at him hopefully. “It’s your choice, Miles.”

Desmond had seemed to forget that it was. Certain that he would lose his job if he went on stage, Desmond’s instinct was to decline. Even if the performance was mediocre without a drummer there would still be a chance to salvage his job. Yet, as Desmond looked around the room he could feel his resolve weakening. When would he have this chance again? Hadn’t this been his dream from the moment he picked up a pair of drumsticks? 

Was playing drums with Creed for one night worth losing his job over?

Fuck yes.

Desmond wet his lips and finally nodded. A rush of excitement swept over him when Ezio Auditore cheered and pulled him into a hug, a grin slowly widening on Desmond’s lips. Altair gave him a smug look from behind Ezio and Desmond flipped him his middle finger. 

“You’ll need these,” Malik produced a set of drumsticks from one of their bags when Ezio finally released him and Desmond took them, spinning them between his fingers as he stared down at them and the Creed insignia on the shaft. They had been signed by Cross but Desmond couldn’t care, they were his now. “You’ve got five minutes before we go on stage.” 

Five minutes wouldn’t last long. Malik stole Altair away to ensure his bloody nose had been cleaned properly, leaving Desmond with Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton. The italian seemed confident he could pull through for them but it was Connor and his quiet resolve that Desmond turned to for moral. “This is insane,” the bartender mumbled.

“Yes, it is. But I think you’ll make it through the night,” Connor told him and Desmond nodded. “Don’t think too much. Don’t even think about getting it perfect. All we need tonight is a beat.”

Desmond glanced away to one of the lounge couches to see Altair and Malik sitting together. Malik silently fussed at the other man’s appearance, wiping up the last of his bloody nose and easily ignoring the way Altair’s gaze was trying to catch his own, a subtle smirk tugging his scarred lips. Looking away when Ezio began to speak again was difficult.

“We’re opening with Dear Father,” Ezio informed him and Desmond couldn’t conceal the grin that lifted his nervous expression. “You know this song?”

“Are you kidding? It came out when I left New York for Paris. I listened to it on repeat for days when I wanted to throw myself overboard.” 

“A boat?” Ezio looked confused. “Why did you not fly over the Atlantic?” 

Desmond rubbed the back of his neck. “I found a job bartending on a cruise ship. I didn’t have enough money to fly and it took a month but it definitely saved me a lot.” The Italian made a noise of comprehension. “I know I can play Dear Father. But...what happens if I fuck up royally? I might not be any good.”

“We’ll find out,” Connor supplied and Desmond was somehow reassured by the uncertainty. It seemed to have been fate that caused Altair to hear Connor playing in the hospital a few years before, rekindling the music of Creed after the losses they suffered in Syria. Desmond trusted that it was fate now that gave him this opportunity to play with them. 

Altair’s voice broke their small circle. “Time to go.” Malik was at the door, watching the now empty stage and the musicians grabbed up their instruments. Desmond almost began to panic but a heavy hand pushed him towards the door and he glanced behind him to see Altair’s scarred mouth drawn into a smirk, his hood pulled up and shading his eyes. “Welcome to the Creed, Desmond.” 

Limbs numb and eyes wide, the bartender seemed to have little choice but to be led on stage with the other band members. Ezio took to the microphone immediately and used some of his basic french to introduce the band. Normally, Arno would have done this, but the band’s french keyboard player wasn’t present and Ezio did what he could. 

“Bonjour Paris!” The audience responded in kind with a cheer. “Je m’appelle Ezio Auditore.” A cry went out from the crowd when the singer gave a wink, known for being playful and flirty both on and off stage. Altair guided Desmond right up to the drum kit and dropped the other onto the seat before giving him a heavy pat on the back and taking up his position stage right of Ezio. “Connor Kenway joue de la guitare.” 

Desmond felt like a deer in headlights. Though he was at the back of the stage and relatively hidden behind Ezio and the drum kit, he may as well have been naked at the front from the way his hands shook. He gripped the drumsticks tightly in his hands. “Desmond Miles joue de le batterie!” There was a mixed response from the audience when they saw the new face in the band, but Desmond loosened up when he heard his name. The young man gave a weak smile and his foot tapped, setting off a few beats on the bass drum. The familiar sound and feel of the drum kit did wonders for his nerves and, after glancing at Altair, the bartender pulled his own hoodie up over his head to provide a little more focus, blocking out the crowd like blinders on a horse.

“Bien sûr...Altair Ibn-La’Ahad joue de la guitare basse!” Desmond watched as Altair lifted his left hand and the audience responded in kind, their ring fingers folded into their palms. Ezio had to wait for the crowd to quiet, their excitement loud enough to drown out his voice on the speakers. Desmond realized too late that he had no ear plugs, seeing that Ezio and the others had slipped in a pair of their own at some point; he would be close to deaf by the end of the night.

At the front of the stage Ezio glanced behind him to see Desmond looking frightened and exhilarated at the same time. He gave the bartender a reassuring smile before looking over the crowd again.

“Notre nom est Creed!”

On cue, Altair pulled out the first few beats of ‘Dear Father’ and Desmond didn’t even think when his hands lifted and came down again, providing a rhythm he had taught himself a year ago when the song first came out. The number ended before he realized it had even begun and Desmond looked up to see the illuminated faces of the crowd, getting a rush from the lights of the club and the sound that filled his skull, threatening to burst it. Ezio briefly mentioned the name of the next song and the band flowed from one set to the next. 

Though Desmond knew each song by heart, his hands didn’t. He could keep up with most of the numbers but there were a few that he stumbled through and Desmond wasn’t deaf to it, cringing his way through transitions and at one point giving up and improvising his own flow. The applause reflected his own thoughts and the band received less enthusiasm for songs that their drummer stumbled through. What was most important was to keep the beat. With that in mind, Desmond did his best to give Creed a worthy performance.

Some time passed and Desmond caught sight of his manager between songs. The Frenchman stood off to one side of the stage and was yelling at him through the din of the crowd. Though Desmond was already quite deaf from the noise, he could imagine that the man was cursing him out in french. He did feel a twinge of guilt for his fellow barkeep, Jean, whom he had left to serve drinks on his own, but there was no way Desmond was leaving the stage now. No one could tell him what to do. Not his manager, not his friends, not even his own damn father.

Desmond was liberated.

When he knew a song by heart the drummer was able to glance up from under his hood to watch the other band members. Altair was some kind of god when it came to the bass guitar. Even with his missing left ring finger he could dance over the frets with ease. Desmond was distracted briefly by the way the man’s hips moved to the sway of the bass and he would have missed a transition on the drums if he didn’t trust his hands and feet to know the song. Stage left was Connor who was bringing life to the melody on his guitar. The young man still wore his beanie, to Desmond’s disappointment. There were several pictures circulating of Connor with his hair down and the fans couldn’t seem to get enough of his long dark locks that fell halfway down his back. 

Ezio was something else entirely and Desmond grinned to see the vocalist practically making love to the microphone. The bartender had never see Creed live save for the crappy phone videos uploaded by fans and the couple of clips on the band’s youtube channel. Even if he was behind them on the stage, it was more than Desmond could have ever asked for. He was just as close to the musicians as the fans at the foot of the stage. The Italian at the front was playful with them, sometimes reaching out to touch their outstretched hands. Once, between songs, he paused to take a selfie with the audience as a whole while the other players chugged down bottles of water. 

The flirting reached a new height when Ezio announced they were going to play a fan favorite. “Cristina!” A cry went out from the audience and Desmond grinned to himself, knowing what was going to come next. Ever since its first debut, Ezio’s song ‘Cristina’ had driven the fans wild and required a volunteer from the audience for Ezio to sing to. The singer left his guitar on stage and slid down into the club’s crowd in order to search out one lucky girl or boy.

As Ezio was swallowed by the crowd Desmond quickly drank down the rest of his water and dried his hands on his pants. When he looked down at his palms he found blisters were developing on his thumbs and pointer fingers and he carefully inspected the injuries before deeming them workable. He hadn’t played so heavily in some time and his hands were taking a beating. When he glanced up he found that Connor was looking back at him. The Mohawk lifted his brows when he saw the drummer checking his hands but Desmond gave him a brief thumbs up, grinning when Connor smiled warmly at him from his spot on stage. The guy had such a nice face. Ugh.

When Ezio returned to the stage, a petite french girl in tow, Altair and Connor both greeted her kindly, used to this number. She looked flustered to be on stage and Desmond could relate to the feeling, knowing how the lights and sounds had overwhelmed him when he first sat behind the drumkit an hour ago.

“Comment t’appelles-tu?” Ezio asked the girl when the stage had settled down. Though the singer had raised his microphone back to his lips, he kept his gaze on hers and her hand in his. The Italian lifted the microphone to her mouth and she mumbled out “B-Barbara.” After making a few remarks in Italian consisting of “ei una ragazza aqua e sapone” and “molto bella” before he glanced back at Desmond. The drummer suddenly sat at attention when he realized he was meant to start playing. Thankfully he knew Ezio’s trademark song and he started up the snappy cadence and Altair followed closely on the bass.

‘Cristina’ was sung in Italian. Though the majority of Creed’s songs were English for wider consumption, there were some that remained in the writer’s mother tongue. A handful of Arabic songs still survived from Creed’s first years and it was on those rare occasions that Altair would take lead vocals, his voice pleasing in a low and simple sort of way compared to Ezio’s magnificent range and Connor’s captivating tones. Arno had provided two songs in french during the last year but he was no longer present to sing them. This left the few Italian tunes that Ezio had convinced Malik to let him produce. ‘Cristina’ was his most popular and was full of sensual undertones. As close as Desmond and the fans could tell, ‘Cristina’ was actually a woman that Ezio had pined over back home in Italy, but he dedicated the song to lovers everywhere and to the longing felt by those who had lost or never met their own beloved. Shaun often mused over what the real Cristina must think of Ezio’s song, especially since he was known to flirt with almost everything on two legs.

The crowd adored Ezio’s performance as he swayed his hips side to side and danced around the girl on stage, spinning her by their joined hands. Though it was likely that most of the audience didn’t know what he was really saying, it was evident that it was heart felt by the way Ezio’s voice dipped and from the number of times he clutched one hand to his chest. The song ended with Ezio on one knee before the girl and the Italian kissed her hand sweetly. “Trovare l'amore ed essere felici,” he told her (find love and live happily). After the applause he helped Barbara down from the stage.

A break in the roster came soon after when Ezio introduced Connor’s solo number. The other members of the band set their instruments aside as the lights on the stage dimmed save for the spotlight on Ratonhnhaké:ton as he switched out his electric guitar for an acoustic one. Ezio stepped away from center stage and Desmond assumed he was going to leave the stage to give his fellow guitarist the spotlight, but as he passed behind Connor the Italian snatched the young man’s beanie hat off his head. The audience erupted into gleeful cheers in that moment.

Connor grabbed at Ezio but the Italian had tossed the hat across the stage to Altair and Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn’t follow for the wires connecting his guitar to the sound board. The man’s long hair had fallen from it’s hiding place in the hat and Connor huffed as he pushed the dark strands from his face. Ezio pouted in good nature and pressed his lips to Connor’s microphone- “Il est-pas beau?” - (is he not beautiful?) and grinned when the audience only redoubled their affectionate cheers and Connor shoved Ezio out of the spotlight.

From his seat at the back of the stage, Desmond watched the way Connor’s long hair fell down the length of his back and he debated snapping a photo to send to Rebecca. The fans knew Ratonhnhaké:ton always had long hair, but it was rarely seen and usual tucked up inside his hat. Before he could think of getting his phone out, Desmond felt a hand on his shoulder and smiled when he turned his head to see Altair crouched beside him and behind the kit. At the front of the stage, Connor began to play.

“You’re doing well,” Altair informed him and Desmond let out a breath of relief. His ears were ringing and the bass player's voice was foggy in transmission. The drummer rubbed at his left ear, wishing it would clear up. “Here.” Desmond took the offered ear plugs with a nod of thanks but waited to put them in. For now, the audience was quiet and the only sound was Connor’s smooth voice and his fingers plucking the strings of his guitar skillfully.

“Glad I don’t completely suck,” the drummer mused.

“Contrary. You’re almost as good as Cross was. Your style reminds me of Kadar’s.” At that, Desmond lifted his brows. He felt like he was hearing something intimate and his chest tightened a little. However, Altair didn’t continue.

“I’ve been making a lot of it up,” Desmond admitted and Altair snorted knowingly. “But I knew most of them so far. I’m sorry about ‘Signal Fire’ though, that was just a mess. It’s a great one but I never learned it.” The bartender ran a hand through his sweaty dark hair before readjusting his white and red hoodie.

Altair only shrugged. “We weren’t expecting anything perfect, Miles. This is better than we could have asked for.” 

“Why did you ask me to do this?” Desmond wanted to know. “You had no idea how it would turn out.”

“You said you played the drums,” Altair reminded him and when Desmond began to protest he rolled his eyes. “And Malik saw you when we did sound check. You were drumming on the bar.”

“I could have just been enjoying the music,” Desmond pointed out but the other man shook his head.

“He told me about it. Malik said you understood the composition. You seem to have music in your blood, Miles.” Before Desmond could get out another word Altair stood and left him to retrieve his bass guitar and prepare for the next song as Connor’s came to an end. The guitarist plucked out the last few measures and Desmond was a little disappointed he hadn’t been able to enjoy the song; he applauded with the audience all the same. They picked up the pace with ‘Plague Doctor’ and Desmond could feel they were nearing the end of the performance. 

By the time they ended the show with a classic from Creed's early years, ‘Brotherhood’, Desmond was exhausted and his blisters were stinging. Even though he had worn the earplugs Altair had given him his ears still rang as they finished the finale. Ezio motioned for him to come forward to the front of the stage with them and Desmond grinned as he slid out from behind the drum kit and stepped up to join them. They gave a bow and Ezio babbled in mixed french, Italian and English, telling the audience members they had been great and prompted them to buy their music and such. The group was cheered off stage and Desmond wiped sweat from his brow as he pushed back his hoodie, following the others into the backroom. 

“That...that was so cool,” he panted when Ezio slung an arm around his shoulders, both of them grinning and Desmond didn’t mind the closeness of the man at all despite his sweating.

“You’re a natural, amico.” Desmond didn’t protest when someone pressed a bottle of water into his hand he quickly down half of it, the drumsticks still clutched in his other hand. He capped the bottle and returned Connor’s passing smile. Ezio handed back the young man’s hat and got a gentle cuff on the shoulder for his trouble before Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled his long hair back inside his hat with practiced motions.

Malik was there, lips pressed into a small smile when he saw Desmond. The man opened his mouth to speak, hopefully to compliment the drummer, but they were interrupted when the door to the back room was flung open. 

“Desmond, tu es con. He’ll have your head for this!” Desmond’s fellow barkeep slid into the room in a bustle and looked like he had been pulling his hair all night. “Did you think before you did that? Idiot. I was giving drinks alone tonight!” Jean threw his hands in the air and came at Desmond like he was going to strangle him but backed off when Connor moved to intercept him. “You’re going to be dismissed,” he warned.

As if called in on cue, Desmond’s manager arrived with a look of fury twisting his face. The man spoke less English than Jean and usually depended on Jean to translate for Desmond. However when the man had finished his sputtering and pointedly looked at Jean for translation, the bartender looked to Desmond and shook his head. “You don’t want to know,” he said with pink cheeks. 

“Tell him I don’t give a rats ass,” Desmond sighed. “In a nice way. He can fire me. I don’t care anymore. I’m sure I can find somewhere else to work.” The former bartender watched as his manager’s face turned red and shook his finger at Desmond with some conviction before spinning on his heel and leaving with a bout of frustrated french. 

Jean pursed his lips. “Miles, you’re very good at this job. How could you give it up this way?”

Desmond snorted softly and fixed his ex coworker with a helpless smile. The rush of the performance was like a drug and Desmond could still hear the music and feel the vibration of the drumsticks under his fingers. “How could I not.” Jean shook his head.

“Then clean this place up. You know you can’t have the apartment anymore,” Jean reminded him and Desmond nodded, pursing his lips and remembering he had been living cheaply above the club. Jean left him there and Desmond felt a little stranded. 

“That’s one thing taken care of,” Ezio mused and smiled when the- now ex- bartender looked at him with confusion. “You certainly can’t be working in Paris if you’re coming with us.”

“What?”

“You think we’re going to leave you here after that performance?” Desmond made a few choked noises of surprise and he glanced between the band members, wondering if this was a practical joke; he found no evidence of it. 

“It was mediocre at best,” Desmond protested, unable to believe what he was hearing.

Malik was the one that stepped forward and offered an explanation. “We haven’t talked about it yet, but I don’t think anyone here is in opposition to the idea. Creed is without a drummer and it’s difficult to find someone with skill who already knows the music. It’s important that we don’t waste time training anyone. Of course you’ll have a trial period to learn the material you don’t know yet.” Desmond nodded numbly. “Your interpretation of ‘Flying Machine’ in particular convinced me you would make a great addition to Creed.”

“Cross didn’t seem to hear what I did when I wrote the song,” Ezio chimed in. “But your performance...incredibile. It was what I had always wanted it to be.” At the compliment, Desmond had to look away, a smile tugging his lips. “Please, amico. Come with us. We are headed toward Italia and will take a break next month to prepare for the next tour. You will have time to practice then.”

The room was quiet and Desmond found that he was once again standing between the members of his favorite band, all eyes on him for the second time that night. The decision should have been easy and Desmond was surprised when he didn’t agree immediately. The disapproving voice of his father echoed in his mind, the one that had driven him crazy as a teen, the one that had haunted him in New York, the same one that made Desmond sail to Paris. It was this noise that itched his skull and poked his nerves.

Fuck that noise.

Desmond had a different kind of noise now; one that had always belonged to him, one that had battled his father’s voice for years. 

“Yeah,” he finally said and looked up. The smile that lifted his lips was one of relief. Desmond had never been at home in South Dakota and he didn’t quite have it in New York. It finally felt like contentment was something within his reach. “I’ll play for Creed, if you’ll have me.”

“Bene!” Suddenly there were hands cupping his face and lips crushed against his own. Desmond sputtered in surprise when Ezio pulled away and only heard laughter around him. Altair pulled him into a brief embrace and Connor clapped him on the shoulder while Desmond tried to quell the heat that had risen to his cheeks. 

Malik approached him, the corner of his mouth turned up. The man’s eyes had lost the tired look Desmond had seen when Malik had first walked into the club earlier that day and the drummer reflected on what Altair had told him during the show. ‘Your style reminds me of Kadar’s.’ Whether that was the cause of Malik’s relief, Desmond couldn’t be sure; all he knew was that he liked the softer look. “We’ll talk about logistics in the morning. For now we need to clean up the stage.” Desmond nodded. “Pack your things tonight. We have a show in Lyon in three days and we leave tomorrow.”

After years of listening to Creed, Desmond was ready to be part of the music. He would fill the empty seat in the car between shows. The words that once fueled his journey from South Dakota to New York City and to Paris would bring him to Italy where he would be accepted into their fold. Creed’s beat, the first thing he learned on a drum kit, would come to life through his own hands. Creed would be his family.

**Author's Note:**

> Desmond has a total crush on all the band members and will probably dick them if he gets the chance.


End file.
